Why throw flowers on my grave when I'm dead?
Why paint pictures of with the blood that I shed?
Why try to copy any word of what I said
When I hated you all when I was living?
Why do I waste time trying to create?
Why do I still try to communicate
When you do nothing 'cept coagulate
Making bad pretenses of pretending?
Why do just sit around counting the days?
Why do you act in so many fickle ways?
Why does it take your type to make this world rotate
When almost all of you are hardly breathing?
And who can tell me what religion is for?
And which idiot thinks that a religion is any more
Than just another product of that same religious soul
That flows through time as through a wretching body?
How can you ban the bomb without first you ban the war?
How can you ban the war without first you ban the peace?
Why does someone talk of peace and someone else of war
When each one is a product of the other?
And how many immortals did you ever see?
And how many gods do you thing there can be?
And how much leading must you need before you find the tree
It's dead and just about to fall upon you?
How'd you go through living without seeing yourself?
And how can you see yourself by searching someone else
And keeping someone's nightmare of a place you labeled hell
Not knowing how to live life without fearing?
You teach the children fear to gain some ease with your laws
Instead of teaching fact you feed them all Santa Claus
Slowly their poor minds are disillusioned by your laws
Is goodness hard to come by without lying
Why do I sit here and sing you this song?
Why have I worried about people for so long?
I think you're all right and it's me that's all wrong
And I hated myself when I was living
Why do I sit here and sing you this song?
Why have I worried about people for so long?
I think you're all right and it's me that's all wrong
And I hated myself when I was living
I think you're all right and it's me that's all wrong
And I hated myself when I was living
And I hated myself when I was living
And I hated myself when I was living…
Why paint pictures of with the blood that I shed?
Why try to copy any word of what I said
When I hated you all when I was living?
Why do I waste time trying to create?
Why do I still try to communicate
When you do nothing 'cept coagulate
Making bad pretenses of pretending?
Why do just sit around counting the days?
Why do you act in so many fickle ways?
Why does it take your type to make this world rotate
When almost all of you are hardly breathing?
And who can tell me what religion is for?
And which idiot thinks that a religion is any more
Than just another product of that same religious soul
That flows through time as through a wretching body?
How can you ban the bomb without first you ban the war?
How can you ban the war without first you ban the peace?
Why does someone talk of peace and someone else of war
When each one is a product of the other?
And how many immortals did you ever see?
And how many gods do you thing there can be?
And how much leading must you need before you find the tree
It's dead and just about to fall upon you?
How'd you go through living without seeing yourself?
And how can you see yourself by searching someone else
And keeping someone's nightmare of a place you labeled hell
Not knowing how to live life without fearing?
You teach the children fear to gain some ease with your laws
Instead of teaching fact you feed them all Santa Claus
Slowly their poor minds are disillusioned by your laws
Is goodness hard to come by without lying
Why do I sit here and sing you this song?
Why have I worried about people for so long?
I think you're all right and it's me that's all wrong
And I hated myself when I was living
Why do I sit here and sing you this song?
Why have I worried about people for so long?
I think you're all right and it's me that's all wrong
And I hated myself when I was living
I think you're all right and it's me that's all wrong
And I hated myself when I was living
And I hated myself when I was living
And I hated myself when I was living…
inviata da Bernart Bartleby - 22/2/2016 - 09:41
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Parole e musica di Roy Harper
Nel suo disco d’esordio, “Sophisticated Beggar”
“October 12th” is a poignant protest song dealing with religion, war, environment, and self. This is Harper’s “Masters Of War” or “Working Class Hero”, but unlike those masterpieces that blame the government, Harper blames himself: “I think you're all right and it's me that's all wrong.”
(da Almost Credible Reviews)